


Nothing Ever Happens On Tuesdays

by WolfieJimi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aromantic, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality Spectrum, Attempt at Humor, Comedy, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Family Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Fluff without Plot, Gen, Humor, M/M, Queerplatonic Relationships, Romantic Comedy, ace - Freeform, and being all cute and best-friends-in-love-ish, and being idiots, aroace, honestly I've barely even proof read it, it's just Aziraphale and Crowley being Aziraphale and Crowley, no beta for this, no really the title is not a lie, nothing happens at all, qpp, robert byron, the road to oxiana, this is an explosion in a candyfloss factory, we're flying solo, well...enjoy!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-18 00:15:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20629904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfieJimi/pseuds/WolfieJimi
Summary: It's Tuesday. Aziraphale is busy. Crowley is bored.------------Yeah this is 100% pure unadulterated comedy fluff with no plot whatsoever. The reason I decided to write this is very important. Significant. Meaningful. Almost religious in it's intenstiy.Billie Piper summed it up best with her philosophical treatise of 1998; "BECAUSE I WANT TO!"Anyway. Domestic candyfloss fluff fic with my own particular brand of unavoidably stupid and inescapably English humor. Really, it's nonsense. Utter, shameless nonsense.Will that do, for a summary?





	Nothing Ever Happens On Tuesdays

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Il ne se passe jamais rien les mardis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22007110) by [Likia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likia/pseuds/Likia)

It was a Tuesday morning. 

There’s really nothing special about Tuesday mornings. As days go, Tuesday is one of the more unremarkable ones. It’s not tangential to the weekend, not like Monday which is the ‘_ back to the grind _ ’ day, or Friday which is the ‘ _ oh, look, it’s nearly the weekend _’ day. It doesn’t hold the pivotal position of Wednesday, the day on which the rest of the week hinges, the crest-point at which ‘beginning’ meets ‘end’. And it’s not even Thursday, which, by virtue of being the day before the day before the Weekend, has its own little bit of penultimate-ish shimmer.

No. Tuesday is just Tuesday. Nothing special. Nothing notable. Nothing to look forward to, and nothing to dread. Just Tuesday. Plain, unremarkable Tuesday. Nothing exciting ever happens on a Tuesday. If you look back through history, you’ll never find anything of note happening on a Tuesday. Julius Caesar didn’t cross the Rubicon on a Tuesday. Henry VIII didn’t divorce Katherine of Aragon on a Tuesday. The most interesting thing to happen on a Tuesday was that Tuesday when Elvis died, except for the fact that he didn’t, because if he did then how could he be working at a burger joint in Des Moines? No, Tuesdays are remarkable only for their utter lack of remarkability. Nothing ever happens on Tuesdays.

It was a Tuesday morning.

Aziraphale had opened the shop at 10:17am. It was now 11:47am. So far one person had wandered in, but only to ask for directions to _ Picturehouse Central _, which Aziraphale had gladly given. 

Outside, the weather was middling. It kept implying that it might consider raining later, but it did so with no real conviction or enthusiasm. The sun was distracted, and the clouds were milling about hither and thither with neither purpose nor direction.

Aziraphale was making the most of the peace and quiet by busying himself with a new cataloguing system that no one other than himself would ever be able to understand.

The clocks ticked.

The floorboards creaked.

A glittery yellow ball boinged relentlessly against the wall. 

This particular sound came courtesy of the sprawling figure draped listlessly over the Angel’s favourite armchair. It was accompanied by an ever-looping live-acoustic mumble-rap rendition of _ Radio Gaga _, provided by the self-same listless and sprawling Demon.

Crowley was _ bored _.

“_ Aaaaaangeeeeel…” _

“Yes?” Aziraphale replied without looking up from his shelving.

“If a seagull eats fried chicken, is that cannibalism?”

“Hm?”

“‘Cause they are both birds, right, but they aren’t the _ same _ birds, are they? You can’t have chicken-seagull babies, can you? _ Can _ you? And even if you can, would that have any bearing on whether or not it’s cannibalism? If you have chicken-seagull chicks, and _ they _ eat fried chicken, is _ that _ cannibalism? What if they eat eggs? What if they eat _ duck _ eggs?”

“I don’t know,” the Angel said, very, very absently.

“Don’t you have a book on it?”

“Book on what?” Aziraphale said, finally looking up.

“Whether seagulls and chickens can have chicks together.”

Aziraphale frowned. “What? Why do you want a book about that?”

“So I know if it’s cannibalism! Obviously!”

“Cannibali- What? Crowley I have no idea what you are talking about, dear boy.”

“Ugh, you weren’t even listening to me.”

“I’m sorry, my dear. I’m just a little busy with sorting all this out.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever…”

Crowley went back to bouncing his ball. He was trying to land it on an errant nail-head sticking out of the doorframe. To his surprise he managed this on the fourth try. To _ Aziraphale’s _ surprise this resulted in the ball’s trajectory being altered so that instead of bouncing back into Crowley’s hands, it instead veered off and whizzed past the Angel’s head, only avoiding thwacking straight into it by a gnat’s breath.

“Whoops... Sorry, angel...” Crowley said guiltily as he scampered across the shop after the errant super-ball.

“Crowley, if you are that bored why don’t you go to the cinema, or go and chivvy some foliage, or something?” Aziraphale said with a slight scowl.

“I’m not bored,” Crowley retorted, lamely.

“Yes you are. How you can be bored when surrounded by books is beyond me, but you clearly are. Why don’t you go and_ do _ something instead of hanging around here and assaulting me with children's toys?"

“It didn’t hit you…”

Aziraphale sighed and shook his head, turning back to his piles of books. 

A few moments later a shadow fell over the Angel’s cataloguing paperwork. Then it went away. Then it came back again. Aziraphale ignored it.

“What are you doing?” Crowley crowed.

“Re-organising my shelving system.”

“Ah. Having fun?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Good. Good, good, good,g-g-g-go_ oo _ od. Brilliant. Wonderful, _ excellente _…”

Crowley leaned in to inspect the shelf that Aziraphale was currently working on.

“‘_ The Road To Oxiana _’,” he read. “What’s that about?”

“Robert Byron’s travels through the Middle East in the early 1930s.” 

“Right,” Crowley said, flicking through the book to get to the picture plates. “Any good?”

“Some people certainly think so.”

“He likes taking photos of old buildings, doesn’t he?”

“That_ is _why he was there...”

“To take pictures of old buildings?”

“Ostensibly, at least...” Aziraphale continued moving books from one shelf to another in a way which, to the untrained eye, may have appeared to be completely chaotic and unsystematic. Aziraphale knew otherwise, of course.

“Oh...” Crowley flicked to the front of the book, and began to read aloud. 

“_ Venice, 20th of August, 1933. Here as a joy-hog; a pleasant change after that pension on the Giudecca two years ago. We went to the Lido this morning, and the Doge’s Palace looked more beautiful from a speedboat that it ever did from a gondola. The bathing, on a calm day, must be the worst in Europe: Water like hot saliva, cigar ends floating into one’s mouth, and shoals of jellyfish. Lifar came to dinner. Bertie mentioned that all whales have syphilis.” _

“Lovely…” Crowley frowned. “What’s that got to do with archaeology in the Middle East?”

“Well, nothing, yet. He travels there later in the book. Makes a detour to Greece first, I believe.” 

Aziraphale lifted a book from the bottom of a pile on the floor and placed it three-books in on the second shelf from the top. 

“We should go to Venice,” Crowley continued, circling the Angel. “We haven’t been there since… When _ was _ the last time we went to Venice, angel?”

“1985. You said you hated it, made us leave seven hours after we arrived, and swore never to go back.”

“Oh. Did I? Why did I do that?”

“You said there were too many tourists and people trying to sell you things, and that the place had been so over-commercialised and over-romanticised that it had lost all remaining pretenses of sincerity and integrity and felt like little more than the set of a particularly tasteless B-Movie.” Aziraphale replied. “And you fell out of a gondola.”

“Oh _yeah_…” the Demon said, tossing the book away. “Let’s not go to Venice. Venice _is_ over-commercialised. And far too much water. Don’t like water. Don’t like boats. Too unstable. Somewhere else, then. How about Japan? Fancy a trip to Kyoto, angel? Freshly prepared sushi? _Umeboshi onigiri?_ _Ichigo daifuku_? All those weird KitKats? Yeah?”

Aziraphale glared at the book Crowley had dropped on the floor.

“Ngk,” Crowley said. “I’ll just… mmgngkf… put that one back up here, shall I?”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale didn’t sound very grateful.

Crowley sighed, and wandered over to sit at Aziraphale’s desk. He lazily began opening and closing drawers. Selection of _ pens through the eras _ . A pocketwatch with _ “Für Herrn Fell. Von Herrn Henlein. Ich sagte dir, ich könnte es tun, verdammt!!” _ engraved on the back. A couple of balls of string. A crochet hook. A handful of elastic bands and paperclips. A dusty manuscript for a play with _ Thomas Kyd _ written on the front. Crowley flipped through it. Something about ghosts and murder and a king or something. Whatever. He put it back. _ Boring _.

Crowley exhausted all of the drawers (except for the secret hidden one, which he had missed. But all that that contained was a stack of unused post it notes and a pencil sharpener, so it didn’t make much difference anyway), and then turned back to the Angel. In doing so, Crowely noticed that this chair could _ spin _. 

And it had _ wheels. _

Aziraphale watched and winced as the chair rocketed past him. It collided with a stack of books and toppled over, sending the Demon - who had been riding said chair with feet outstretched - into a tangled heap on the floor, out of which rolled, because there are certain universal conventions which must be adhered to, a wheel.

“I’m fine!” A voice called out from somewhere within the twisted pile of arms and legs, both chair and Demon. “Fine! Meant to do that! Ngrk…!”

“Oh, good lord!” Aziraphale pushed himself up onto his feet and hurried over to assist his ridiculous Demon in extricating himself from his current predicament.

He held out his hand, and pulled Crowley to his feet. 

“Ngk.”

“Are you alright?”

“Uh. Yeah…”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. Crowley rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Okay. I might be a _ tiny _ bit bored.” Crowley said. He winced and looked down at his chair-crash. “Erm, I _ may _ have broken your chair… Sorry. I mean, I could miracle it if…”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Aziraphale said with a sigh, but not a very annoyed one. “We agreed to avoid using miracles except in emergencies, and we ought to stick to that really. Don’t want to bring _ their _ attention back onto us, if we can help it. Especially not over a broken chair.”

“Sorry. Maybe I can fix it without using a miracle?”

Aziraphale and Crowley both looked down at the broken chair, with it’s complicated little screw-y bits and confusingly interlocking metal rotating _ things _, and then looked back at each other.

“Yeah, maybe not,” Crowley said. 

“I’ll just buy a new one. Doesn’t matter.” The Angel softened and looked Crowley up and down. Crowley noticed then that Aziraphale was still clasping his hand. 

“Are you hurt?” Aziraphale asked.

“Nah. Well, a bit. Not much.”

“Hmm….”

“Honestly, angel. I’m a good _ lander _ . Should be, I’ve had enough experience with falling.” The Demon frowned. “…No, wait, not like that. I mean actually falling. Like tripping up. That wasn’t a distasteful pun. Or any pun. I _ hate _ puns. I would _ never _ deliberately make a pun. I just actually fall over a lot. Well, not any more. Not _ a lot _ . But, you know. back when I was still getting used to _ legs _. I mean -”

“You’ve ripped your blazer...” 

Aziraphale reached out and rested his hand on the torn fabric at Crowley’s waist, thumbing the material and stopping the Demon in his tracks.

“Aaarghhh, bugger!” Crowley twisted around trying to get a better look at the damage. “Ugh! I really liked this jacket!”

Aziraphale inspected the rip. It was torn right through the lining. 

“If you like, I could-”

“Ah, nah. It’s alright. I’ve got, like, five more like this one, anyway. And like you said, no non-emergency miracles. Doesn’t matter.” 

“I was going to say I could take it to my tailor and get it mended.”

“Oh. Oh right. Yeah, alright.”

“Leave it near the till so I don’t forget.”

“Thanks,” Crowley said as he removed his jacket and tossed it over the shop’s counter. As he did so, Crowley spotted one of Aziraphale’s nicer knitted jumpers (dark green, fisherman rib stitch, no terrible fair isle or colour work, merino aran, smelled like the angel...) thrown over the back of the sofa. He sauntered over to it, picked it up, and pulled it on. It was too big for him, but it was warm, and soft, and comfortable. It was like wearing a hug. Not that Crowley would want to wear a hug. Crowley wasn’t a hugger. Absolutely not. Mostly.

Actually, Crowley wasn’t quite sure why he’d put the stupid thing on at all. That wasn’t a thing he usually did. He’d just seen it, and had been overcome with an insurmountable _ need _ to wear that jumper. Probably just because his ridiculously expensive shirt wasn’t very warm, without a jacket on top. That was definitely the reason. And his other jackets were _ all the way upstairs _in his wardrobe. So. There we go. Sensible explanation.

Crowley noticed that Aziraphale was staring at him in a peculiar way.

“What?” The Demon said, defensively. “I’m cold.”

The Angel shook his head and smiled. “No, no. By all means. Go ahead. Suits you.” 

“Hardly…” Crowley went to push up his glasses, only to find they were no longer on his face. “Hey!? Where did my sunglasses go?!”

“Sorry?”

“Glasses! Not On Face!”

“Oh, so they aren’t. Oh dear. You did take quite a tumble, didn’t you? Are you _ sure _you aren’t hurt, dear boy?”

“Yeah, no, yeah, I’m fine...” Crowley distractedly said as he darted about and began kicking through the chair-and-book-pile wreckage looking for his designer eyewear. Which really isn’t any way to search for glasses, but that’s what he did. “Where_ are _ the bloody things? They are _ really _ expensive. I will _ really _ not be pleased if they are broken. For God’s sake…”

“Oh dear.”

Crowley turned around to see Aziraphale tentatively picking up his very broken glasses by one of their very bent arms. One of the lenses had popped out, and the other was decidedly cracked. 

Crowley groaned. It was a very heartfelt groan. Since they’d successfully driven back Heaven and Hell following Nahmageddon and had decided between them that laying off on the miracle-front was probably in their best interests, Crowley had managed to wreck no less than _ fifteen _ pairs of glasses. It had only been six months. Sixteen pairs, now. He only had four left.

“Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Wonderful. Great. Argh!” Crowley threw his hands in the air and began to pace in an aggravated manner whilst muttering to himself about the universe hating him.

Aziraphale stared at him for a few moments, and then looked down at the glasses in his hands. He ran a hand over the twisted metal, then handed a pristine pair of sunglasses back to the Demon.

Crowley frowned, then sighed.

“Angel…”

“Oh, it was barely a miracle,” Aziraphale said, dismissively. “And what could Heaven do with that information, in any case? ‘_ Oh, look, Aziraphale fixed Crowley’s broken glasses, in the bookshop, where they live, where we know they live _’. Not exactly top tier intelligence, is it?”

“Why can’t I fix the chair, then?”

“Oh. Well.” Aziraphale replied, as if that were any kind of an answer.

Crowley shook his head and smiled. “Well, thank you, angel,” he said as he put his glasses back on. “Much appreciated.”

“Oh! I added a little extra to them as well, I hope you don’t mind. Made them a little _ sturdier _ .” Aziraphale paused, sheepishly. “Well, that is to say... I made them _ unbreakable _, actually. But that’s barely more than a minor miracle, I’m sure it will be fine. I really don’t think they are paying much attention anyway.”

“Angel! You shouldn’t- Right, that’s it,” Crowley said, marching towards the broken chair. He fixed it with a snap of his fingers, and set it back upright. “There,” he said, pushing it towards the Angel. “Fixed.”

“...That really wasn’t necessary.”

“Neither was fixing my glasses.”

“Crowley, I don’t _ care _ about the chair.”

“Yes you do. You made your _ I’m bothered about this but won’t say anything because I’m too nice _ face. Obviously you care about the chair getting broken. It’s some irreplaceable antique, isn’t it? Don’t lie to me, you aren’t any good at it.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Your _ face _ said _ otherwise,” _ Crowley retorted in a sing-song-ish voice.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t ‘bothered’. I said I don’t care about the chair. It’s from_ Ikea _.”

“Uh. ... It- I- Oh. Really?”

“Yes, I purchased it about five years ago.”

“Ah. Nice chair, for an _ Ikea _ one.”

“Yes, I was rather surprised at the quality, too.”

“Nice finish on it.”

“Not terribly expensive, either.”

“Um, so, angel, if you weren’t bothered about the chair, what _ were _ you bothered about? Because you were. I can tell.”

“You’re right. There’s something I care about a great deal, and I was rather concerned about it getting damaged.” The Angel smiled in a really weird way that Crowley couldn’t quite pin down.

“Aargh...Ngk. I ran over some, mgnfgmfngnk, really important book or something, didn't I?”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and shook his head and tried not to laugh. 

“_ You _, Crowely! I was worried about you getting hurt! And about you being so bored in the first place. Felt a little guilty, truth be told. I’ve been somewhat neglectful of you, lately, haven’t I? Entirely remiss of me. No wonder you’ve resorted to crashing yourself into things. Only way to get my attention, it seems. I’m sorry, dear boy.”

“Ngrkngmk.”

Aziraphale stared at Crowley for a handful of clock-ticks.

“Come on. Get your coat,” the Angel said.

“Why? Have I pulled?” That came out entirely involuntarily. The joke was laid out on a _ platter _ . He couldn’t have _ not _ make the joke. It’d be _ criminal _ not to have made the joke. It would probably have caused some sort of rift in the _ universe, _ not to make the joke. Crowley cringed and bit his tongue.

“What? No, it’s cold out.”

“What?”

“We’re going out.”

“What? Why? Where? Now?”

“We’re going out. Why - Because I don’t want you damaging anything else of mine, namely yourself, in this fidgety mood of yours, and because I’ve suddenly realised that I am myself in sore need of spending some quality time with you. Where - To wherever you feel like, but I rather fancy sushi, if you don’t object. And yes, now.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Coat, then. Get a wiggle on!”

“But your cataloguing…”

“It’ll keep.”

“But-”

“Crowley, please do shut up and put an overcoat on.”

Crowley shut up, and put an overcoat on (on top of the jumper. Which, incidentally, he never did give back to Aziraphale. Aziraphale was quietly pleased about that. He liked that jumper. He liked it better on Crowley.)

oOo

They went out for sushi. Then they came back home and re-watched the first season of _ Downton Abbey _, and did a whole lot of nothing much. It was all rather lovely. 

And Crowley decided that, on balance, he really did quite like Tuesdays, after all.


End file.
